Been Better
by ScoobySnake
Summary: Set somewhere in S5 probably. Sam makes a dumb decision when he's drunk, him and Dean get separated, and some not so friendly hunters want to hold someone accountable for the apocalypse getting switched on. Two guesses who that might be... Violence, hurt!sam, language. Basically not for kids or squeamish adults. *old-timey radio voice* Will the Winchesters ever catch a break?
1. Chapter 1

"Dean!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Clearly he'd forgotten about the glass clutched in his fingers, the liquor inside swishing from side to side, spilling some over onto the ground.

Sam didn't notice. Dean sighed, shaking his head as he made his way over to his less-than-sober brother.

Although most people might just think this kid was out having a good time, the liquor making him a little more happy than he already was, Dean knew better.

In their line of work – hell, in their _life_ – they didn't get that happy.

Sure, the brothers joked around some. They even played pranks on each other now and then, finding laughs where they could, but there were too many faces, too many shadows, always following them around. Clinging to the back of their minds like tar, each one adding another layer of weight and darkness.

It was why Dean always had music on. The car radio, his headphones when he was laying in bed, even the clumsy bar noise. It all served the same purpose: Drowning the memories.

His nerdy brother was the opposite. For the longest time Dean hadn't been able to understand how Sam could stand the silence of those dusty libraries he always holed up in. The kid preferred quiet to the loud guitar riffs of their father's favorite songs.

Eventually he figured out that the facts and mysteries Sam spent hours on served the same purpose as Dean's music. He'd managed to walk into a room enough times when Sam was sitting, lost in his research, and stand there, watching his little brother's eyes dart back and forth across his computer screen or the page of a book for several minutes without Sam realizing he was there.

It was one of those times when he was standing there, watching Sam with an amused smirk that he came to the realization that even though the room around Sam was painfully quiet, his little brother's mind was loud.

Sam drowned his demons in the things that he could control and the mysteries he could solve. It made sense if you knew just how much of Sam's life had been beyond his control. Even more so than Dean's.

Sam's fate had been written for him when he was 6 months old. And he'd been trying to fight it ever since.

Some people say that facing death makes you appreciate life more. Well, maybe that's true when you face your own death, for _most_ people, but for the Winchester brothers it wasn't.

Watching all the people you love die - and not peacefully either, but _horribly_ and _violently_ die – it just made you want to stop feeling anything.

And, on top of that, for the Winchester boys, their own deaths hadn't even meant the end. Just more pain and loss.

Knowing this, Dean slipped through the crowded bar, nudging people out of his way. He could see Sam turn to the bartender, a pretty girl with long black hair and bright blue eyes who looked to be about 25. Sam pointed to his glass and motioned to Dean. Dean rolled his eyes, knowing that Sam was ordering a drink for him. His happily inebriated brother no doubt wanted to keep the party going.

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, catching the bartender's eye and shaking his head lightly at the drink she was about to pour. She smiled knowingly at him and nodded.

"Dean!" Sam repeated, throwing his arms around his big brother in a giant bear hug.

Dean let out a puff of air. _God, his little brother needed to lay off the workout routine_ , "I'm drinking!" Sam stated victoriously. "I got you one too…" His gaze wandered a little, searching for the missing drink, then looked up at the bartender, "Th's 's my br'ther, Ava."

Ava nodded at Dean, smiling widely, "Hi, I've heard a lot about you."

Dean laughed nervously. Generally he didn't want _anyone_ to hear a lot about him, and he hoped Sam had managed to keep the topic of conversation away from the family business.

"Okay, Sammy, I think its time to go…" he tried gently moving Sam off the bar stool with one arm wrapped around him.

"Wha?" Sam didn't budge, "nooooo… " His words came out slowly with his effort to use proper pronunciation.

"Let's stay! Look! I got you a drink!" He turned, once again searching for the missing drink.

"No thanks, Sammy. Let's just head back to the room. I think you're wasted enough for the both of us." Sam looked offended.

"Nooo I'm not! I have barely anything!"

"Uh huh," said Dean, unconvinced by his brother's clear lack of brain power. He pulled more forcefully on Sam's shoulder and Sam stumbled off his stool.

"But what about Ava?" Sam blurted, pointing to the bartender who was watching them with amusement. He was clearly concerned about leaving the pretty girl behind.

"I'll be fine sweetie," said Ava. "You should go with your brother."

"Ok, but you's stay there, ok?" Sam leaned drunkenly over the bar, his voice morphing to what Dean was sure his brother _thought_ was a whisper, "I have to make him fall aslee'pa," he gestured towards Dean who rolled his eyes, "then I'll be back!" He grinned at Ava, who couldn't help smiling back at the gigantic drunken boy in front of her.

"Ok Casanova, c'mon..." Dean grabbed a fist full of Sam's tee-shirt and dragged his brother towards the door, apologizing as Sam's gigantic body managed to hit almost everyone on the way out.

The cold night air hit them as they stepped out onto the black asphalt in the quiet parking lot. Sam leaned back and breathed it in, smiling up at the stars.

"Wow," he breathed, stumbling backwards a little before Dean caught him.

"Easy Sam," Dean cautioned, knowing that if Sam went down they were both gonna taste dirt. He was far from confident that he could keep his little giant up if he decided to become dead weight.

"Do the stars look kinda like ghosts to you, Dean?" Sam asked, glancing at his brother and smiling that big, goofy grin.

"Sure Sam…" Dean answered, raising an eyebrow. Sam laughed.

If only this could actually be funny. If only this could actually be a happy-go lucky kid letting alcohol make him even more so... But Dean knew better. He knew that the kid had been through more than anyone should ever have to. He had lost too many people he loved, practically _everyone_ he loved, almost systematically, including Dean a couple times.

Dean felt a pang of guilt thinking about that. He had caused his fair share of pain. He'd said some things to Sam that irreparably shifted their relationship.

They had a fight about a week ago, and Dean had said he might be better off doing this job alone. It was a stupid thing to say, he wasn't thinking. After everything Sam had been through all he needed was to have his big brother threaten to leave him… again. If he was honest with himself he didn't trust Sam. Not the way he used to. Implicitly, without even a shadow of a doubt to make him second guess.

Now everything was unsteady. He couldn't help feeling like Sam brought an element of risk to every job. He watched every move his brother made, waiting for him to misstep. It wasn't fair. Or maybe it was. Either way it was wearing on Sam, and Dean could see it. As hard as he might try to act like things were business as usual, they weren't. And he knew Sam could sense his distrust.

So he knew that Sam wasn't just really happy, even though he had always been a happy drunk.

Sam was covering up, numbing up. The more alcohol, the less memory. Dean knew this tactic because he used it on a weekly basis. Of course now that meant that he was never really able to get wasted enough to get happy.

But he could gage how drunk Sam was by how happy he was... Right now – plastered.

Sam wrapped a long arm around Dean, and Dean watched with eyebrows raised as Sam stared at him.

Way too close.

"Dean." Sam rocked closer to Dean's face, then back again.

"Dude–" Dean started, but was cut off by Sam putting a finger to his lips, _shhhh-ing_ him and spraying spit everywhere. Dean made a face.

"You…" Sam wavered, "you…" Dean was getting more uncomfortable by the second. "You're short." Dean rolled his eyes. Sam burst out laughing, and ran his hand through Dean's hair, messing it up.

"Sam!" Dean shoved his brother's arm off him, "what the hell!" he quickly patted his hair back into place.

Sam snorted, " _Sam_!" he mocked Dean's voice. "Dude, yer like a girl… 'bout yer hair!" Sam ran his hand back over Dean's head.

"Dude!" Dean yelled, grabbing Sam's arm. "You're one to talk. Keep it up and I might just get the scissors out while you're asleep. C'mon, we're getting you to bed!"

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't fight Dean's grip, "Yer sucha bus.. buzz.. buzzkill!"

Dean shook his head, continuing the march to the motel room across the street.

They reached the door to their room and Dean quickly slid the key into the lock, opening the door. He went to shove Sam through the doorway, but his brother wouldn't move. He looked up at Sam who was once again gazing up at the sky.

"Hey Dean... Do you think they are ghosts?"

Sam's voice was more steady now, the cold air probably helping him sober up a little.

"Sure, Sammy." Dean tried once again to pull Sam through the doorway. Sam merely leaned back a little, still focused on the stars.

"No, I mean it!" he slurred. "I mean… maybe… maybe they're all… there..." He smiled wistfully at the sky.

Dean swallowed, there it was. Without the crowded bar, reality was beginning to seep back into his little brother's mind.

"Ya think?" Sam asked, looking at Dean.

Dean sighed, looking away from those hopeful hazel eyes, "I don't know Sam. Let's just go in man, ok? Please?" He gestured towards the room. Sam glanced up at the sky again, then nodded.

Dean turned, still holding Sam's arm. But once again, he felt himself stopped, Sam wasn't following him. He looked back. Sam wasn't looking at the stars, but instead at the motel room door, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Sam!" Dean tried to force his brother's attention, but Sam continued to stare at the door. Dean followed his gaze, "What?" he said looking from Sam to the door and back.

"Hmm…" Sam was obviously trying to concentrate, but it just made him look like he was about to pass out, "There's somethin'… somethin' here…"

"What?" Dean said, not sure if he should be worried or just irritated at his brother's lack of compliance, "Sam, what do you mean 'there's something here?'" His expression went from slightly concerned back to annoyed as Sam let out another snort of laughter and began to chuckle.

Dean rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that night, and shoved the swaying giant through the doorway. This time Sam went easily.

Sam immediately fell onto the bed, smiling warmly as he rubbed his face into the filthy pillows that came with their cut-rate motel rooms. Dean walked over to their mini fridge in the corner, cracking it open and pulling out a bottle of water. The small "pop" signaled the cap opening, and Sam's eyes opened, immediately focusing on the bottle.

He sat up, and fell back against the headboard with a loud _clunk_. Dean couldn't help but smile a little as he handed the bottle to the awaiting hand of the oversized child. Sam was always so serious. Now he was acting like a the goofy teenager Dean remembered sneaking shots of whiskey to.

Sam took several gulps, stopping momentarily to let out a long sigh. Dean settled onto the other bed, watching his brother carefully, wondering when the inevitable reappearance of all that liquor was going to occur.

"What the hell were you doin' there man?" He asked, watching Sam chug the rest of the bottle.

"What?" Sam quirked an eyebrow. His voice had an edge of defensiveness to it.

"You're wasted."

"Yea. Kinda th' point, D'n."

Dean frowned, "Since when do you go get plastered at some hick bar by yourself? I can barely get you out of the library to come get a drink _with_ _me_ on a good day."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Wha's the problem, dude. You're 'lways trying to get me to the bar, so I went to a bar. An' you drink all the time."

Dean felt a pinch of annoyance. "I don't drink _all_ the time. And not to the point where I can barely stand."

Sam shrugged and lobbed the empty water bottle at a small trash can in the corner. The bottle missed and bounced off the wall.

"Dean," Sam said, staring at the door again.

"Yeah Sammy?" Dean said with a heavy sigh.

"There's somethin' wer-rong…" He stumbled over the words, eyes still focused on the door.

Dean sat up. What was going on with this fucking door?

"Sam? What are you talking about?"

"There's… something… Dean…" Sam's head lulled, coming to rest on his chest.

"Sammy!" Dean jumped up from his bed. Wrapping his hands around the back of Sam's neck, he used his thumbs to push Sam's face up. And the annoyance returned.

Sam's body began to shake with low chuckles. Dean let go of Sam's face and sat, jaw clenched, back on his own bed. The chuckles turned into a full-blown laugh, and tears began running down the younger Winchester's cheeks. Dean waited, watching his brother have a solo laughing fit.

"What the hell is so funny?" Dean growled.

Sam gasped, trying to speak, then fell back into hysterics.

Dean watched his brother with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. He was tired and sober, and didn't get the joke.

Sam was struggling to breathe, tears running down his cheeks. In some way, Dean was happy to see Sam smiling so much, but he knew something was off.

His irritation quickly went away as he watched his brother's laughter slow, while the tears kept going. Sam's breathing became more normal, but every few breaths were accented by a small jump in his chest.

"Sammy…?" Dean leaned over towards his brother's bed. Sam continued to stare at the door, a slight smile returning to his lips. This wasn't the same smile as before though. This smile was harsh, bitter. Broken.

"Something here," Sam scoffed.

"What?" Dean's confusion and concern was etched all over his face.

"I thought something evil was here," Sam's voice was steady now, low and croaky. He shook his head, "I was worried there might be something evil in the room. Couldn't wrap my brain 'round it. But there is."

"Sam, what the hell are you talking about?" Dean wondered if maybe he had been the one drinking, because he couldn't make heads or tails of what Sammy was saying. The tears continued to flow, dripping onto Sam's shirt.

"Evil, Dean. I mean, what we call evil, anyways. Someone who kills people. Someone who is angry, hateful. A demon." Sam wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were empty. Exhaustion finally setting in.

"There's no demon here Sam," Dean reassured his little brother.

Sam let out a harsh, humorless laugh, "Yes. There is."

Dean sat back on his bed, eyes searching Sam cautiously.

"Sam..."

"I guess it depends on your definition, huh."

"No. It doesn't. Demons are demons. Don't let the whiskey twist your head. C'mon, just get some rest-"

"A monster by any other name."

"Wha-" Dean's heart stopped. He'd helped plant that little idea, hadn't he. "You're not a monster, Sam."

Sam's mouth twitched. "I shouldn't be here…" Sam's voice had gotten dangerously quiet. "We're not the same anymore. Maybe we never were, ya know?"

Dean jumped as his brother suddenly stood up, swaying as he did, "Whoa, whoa! You're not going anywhere right now dude." Dean rushed over to Sam's side, grabbing his shoulders. Sam's sudden shove caught him off guard and he stumbled backwards into a wall.

"Gettoff Dean!" Sam fumbled for the doorknob.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean grabbed his brother again, this time using some force to throw Sam back towards the bed, "Listen to me, man." He kneeled in front of of the bed, grasping Sam's face, probably a little too roughly, between his palms. "I know shit's fucked right now. I get it. And a lot of that's my fault." Sam rolled his eyes. "Hey!" Dean shook him, "This isn't on you, get it? I've said shit I shouldn't have." He bit his lip, "You aren't a monster, Sam. You aren't one of them. You never were. But you are wasted. Just calm down and try to get some sleep. Things'll be better in the morning."

He stood, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "Just go to sleep, alright?"

Sam's head was hanging loosely, hands resting on his knees. He gave a lazy nod, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. His brother wasn't the only one that needed some sleep.

His relief was short lived. Sam slowly raised his head, getting up from the bed, making his way toward Dean.

"Sam…" Dean cautioned.

Too late. Sam was drunk, wasted, plastered – all of the above, but he still managed to throw a solid punch into Dean's stomach and shove him into the wall. Dean doubled over and fell to his hands and knees on the worn carpet, gasping for air. His vision spun.

"I'm sorry…" Sam whispered, and before Dean could catch his breath to stop him, Sam closed the door.

* * *

Sam's feet felt like lead with each step he took. He stepped in a small puddle and the sudden sound made him wobble and fall into the wall next to him. Deciding he could use the support, he continued to lean as he walked, scraping his arm on the the rough bricks.

Obviously he'd had way too much to drink. He knew that. Everything was a haze, a blur. Every sound was far away, and he had to keep rethinking the last few moments to make sure they'd really happened. He wasn't sure they had.

He sighed. In spite of his better judgment - which, lets face it, wasn't really operating at full power right now - he liked being this drunk. He liked being this numb.

For the past… well, he couldn't really even remember how long. But for a long time, he had been feeling _all_ if it, _all_ the time. He was sick of it. Everything hurt. Every time he looked at Dean it hurt. He could hardly stand to meet his brother's eyes. Every second spent in a hotel room or a sheriff's office or a witness' house with Dean felt suffocating. He'd had a panic attack more than once, excusing himself to go to the bathroom when he felt the room start to spin. He couldn't control his breathing and his stomach would twist itself in uncomfortable knots. Resting against the cold walls helped, usually after losing his breakfast.

He had managed to damage their relationship beyond repair. He put his brother, the one person who had always looked out for him, through so much shit. Stupid, reckless shit. He knew Dean didn't trust him anymore. That's why Dean had suggested that he do this last hunt on his own, rather than with Sam. Dean had put so much into keeping Sam safe, keeping him alive… And Sam just kept screwing it up. To put it mildly.

Starting the apocalypse was a little worse than an _oops, my bad._ And he'd been so goddamned arrogant about it. He'd been so sure he knew better.

He didn't notice the end of the wall had arrived until he slipped and fell over into the alleyway, landing in another puddle. The smell of garbage filled the air, and he realized there was a dumpster right next to his head.

 _Perfect_ he thought. He couldn't muster the energy to lift himself. He didn't know where he was going to go if he did.

So he stayed.

He wasn't sure he could get up now even if he wanted to. He vision swam when he shifted. He let his head rest back against the cold bricks, drawing short breaths, trying to keep the panic at a dull roar.

He couldn't help thinking about the way Dean, and Bobby, looked at him these days. They tried to hide it, but he saw it. Every now and then he saw that flash of fear. Like they were afraid he was going to turn and attack them or something. Of course he wouldn't. He would never hurt them. He would do anything for them; die for them in an instant.

Another humorless laugh escaped his throat. But he had hurt them. He hurt everyone he came in contact with… like a disease…

The thought made his chest constrict, and a lump wedged itself in his throat. He was a disease. A demonic virus that destroyed everything it touched. He was quite literally carrying that around in his veins.

Tears stung his eyes, _fuck_. _How am I supposed to fix this?_ It was too much. But he had to fix it. He was the one who broke it.

Slowly, he worked his way to his wobbly feet, clinging to the wall behind him for support. Half asleep, half drunk, he began a swerving path down the alleyway.

With every footstep, voice, and sound muffled, it's no wonder he didn't hear them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that there was some noise coming from somewhere, but his brain was too sluggish to register that there were footsteps on the asphalt behind him, splashing, quickly and lightly, through the puddles.

His skin was numb, from the booze and from the cold, so he really didn't feel the pinch of the needle as it entered his neck. He sort of felt the heavy arms that wrapped around him, and the hard ground as it came up to meet him.


	2. Chapter 2

He was jerked awake by a hard smack. His cheek stung and his breathing quickened as his eyes snapped open, revealing a stranger standing over him. The man had dark brown hair, almost black, and twinkling blue eyes. He tilted his head, smiling satisfactorily at Sam who was just becoming aware that he couldn't move his arms.

He jerked and instantly regretted it, groaning as his wrists resisted, metal biting into his skin. His feet would barely move and he felt the weight of chains on them.

"Well, looky here boys," the man yapped gleefully. "Looks like sleeping beauty decided to join us!"

Sam blinked a few times, trying to make his eyes focus, "Wh- What's goin' on?" he asked groggily.

"Sounds like the princess had a little too much tequila last night!" the dark-haired man scoffed.

"Not very lady-like" another man's voice chuckled, echoing around the room.

"You really oughta be more careful," the first man said, grabbing onto the back of Sam's neck and leaning in, "Someone might try to take advantage of you pretty-boy." Sam cringed and leaned back as far as the chair he was chained to would allow, the man's hot breath blew across his face and neck.

He jerked his head away, trying to shake off the creep's hand. He was becoming more aware of his surroundings, including the two other men in the corner of the small, concrete room. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew his hands were cuffed tightly to something behind his back and his feet were secured to a chair with chains – normally, not good.

"Who are you? What the hell is this?" Sam growled, shifting in the chair and wincing when metal cut into his wrists again.

"Ooo," the man mocked, "aren't you a feisty one! I hate to tell ya though, Sam, it doesn't have quite the same effect when you're hog-tied and hung over. You've definitely looked better."

Sam held eye contact with the man, trying not to betray the headache currently slicing through his brain. "What. Do. You. Want." He pronounced each word slowly, uninterested in chatting with these lovely morons more than he had to.

"Not one for idle banter, huh?" the man shrugged, turning and nodding to the other men. "That's alright, I prefer gettin' down to business myself." He whipped back around, slamming a fist hard into Sam's stomach. Sam's breath was forced from his body and for a moment he was sure he was going to be sick. He gulped helplessly, trying just as hard to drag in oxygen as to keep the liquor down.

"Ya see, Sam," the man continued casually, stretching his hand. "Myself, Mack, and Dennis here don't much care for you. Been hearin' some strange things through the grapevine Sam… Strange things." Sam coughed, finally able to refill his lungs. "Somethin' about a boy with demon blood – a hunter, no less! Would you believe it?" The man's voice was almost sing-song, like he was telling a story to a child. He was enjoying this. Mocking Sam. He turned to back to face Sam, pausing for a minute, as if expecting a response, but then continued, "See, word is, this demon boy, he actually let the _Devil_ _himself_ out of Hell."

Sam glanced down before he could stop himself. He was sure the shame was etched all over his face. He would give anything to take back that night. To take back everything. He had let the Devil himself out into the world, but he had also betrayed the one person who relied on him the most, the one person who had been with him through everything.

Dean.

Sam's churning stomach tightened more at that thought than any other. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly, wanting to force the memory from his mind. He felt a tight grip on his jaw, and his eyes shot open. The man lecturing him forced Sam's face up so that they were looking straight into each other's eyes.

"Now tell me Sam, does that sound like anyone you might know?" Sam's breath quickened. He couldn't bring himself to deny it. His glared defiantly at the stranger, his lips twitching with contempt, but he didn't feel defiant. He felt defeated. "Answer me!" the man suddenly screamed, making Sam flinch. His grip tightened on Sam's chin, his nails digging into the flesh. "Boy, you better answer me or I'll rip you skin from your bones." His voice was low, almost a whisper now.

Sam struggled to speak. He couldn't deny it, he didn't know what to say. "I'm not-" he stammered, trying to explain. There was so much more than that. Nothing justifying what he had done to Dean, but there was more.

 _Crack!_ Sam grunted as the fist hit his cheek, knuckles snapping against bone. He tasted copper and spit, blood dripped to the floor, some running down his chin.

"I don't want excuses from you, kid. I want answers! You let the Devil out. People are dying. _Good_. _People_." The man's head dipped to the side, his eyes wide, making him look deranged. " _My_ wife. _My_ boy. My little girl. Your fucking demon friends TORE. THEM. APART!" He screamed the last words, his face twitching with rage. Sam who instantly felt the blood drain from his face.

The guy straightened. The switch from near insane to icily composed made him all the more frightening. This man was hanging by a thread and Sam knew it.

"Now," he said, smoothing a hand over his mouth. "We wanna know where the damn Devil is headed, what his next move is. And you," he smiled and pointed at Sam with a boney finger, " are gonna tell us."

Sam's head snapped up. His head spun, not understanding. "What?"

Another fist, this time to his ribs. A hand grasped his hair so tightly he felt strands rip from his scalp and his eyes started to water.

"Don't play dumb with me! _Don't_ you fucking _dare_!" The man's voice was wild, strained with emotion. His teeth were bared, inches from Sam's face. "Tell me what the plan is! What you are planning? Hm? Where does it start?" His lips twitched with every word.

Then it dawned on Sam. They thought he was _working_ _with_ Lucifer? "No- I- I- don't know," Sam whispered. He was at a loss. He doubted he could say anything that would stop this man from tearing his throat out. He guessed the only reason he was still alive was that they thought he knew something. Something he simply didn't know.

He closed his eyes, waiting for another hit. Instead, a low chuckle echoed throughout the room. Sam looked up, taken aback. The man was walking away from him walking toward the other two. He nodded at the taller of the two – Dennis, if Sam remembered right. "Your turn."

Dennis leered at Sam before turning slowly to face a large metal table behind him. Sam heard shuffling, and the chinking of metal on metal. He gulped, pretty sure he didn't want Dennis to have his turn. When Dennis finally faced him, a small knife was resting in his right hand.

He sauntered slowly towards Sam. "We have to start out small," he said, holding up the blade, twirling it in his hand. Sam shifted nervously, knowing it wouldn't do any good. His wrists were already bleeding from the cuffs, his shoulders burning from his struggles to pull free.

Dennis stopped inches in front of him and kneeled, "So," he murmured, staring Sam in the eye and picking at his teeth with the knife. "Where should we start, hm?" He raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't do this," Sam couldn't control the shake in his voice. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, it won't do any good. I can't tell you what I don't know." He watched the blade warily as it grated against Dennis' teeth, turning and glinting. "I'm telling the truth. I. Don't. Know."

"Well, I think we'll soon know for sure either way."

Sam arched his back, pressing hard into the chair as the man brought the knife up to his throat.

In one quick motion Dennis cut through Sam's t-shirt. Sam let out a muffled yell, clenching his teeth together as the knife broke the skin across his chest. Another slash, another yell. A large 'X' was carved into his flesh, oozing red blood through the fabric of his shirt.

"Now…" Dennis backed away a couple steps, "what were you saying?"

The fresh irritation from the sudden burning and stinging gave Sam a surge of spite and anger. "Fuck. You." He panted, his hair, now wet with sweat, falling in his eyes.

"Hm. Good thing I'm just getting started here, kid, you need to learn some manners." Sam twisted his neck as the jackass took his time cutting a thin line into Sam's cheek. His tendons and muscles screamed in protest while he strained to get free.

"You know I really don't get it, boy," Dennis remarked casually, dragging the edge of the knife along Sam's shoulder. "What makes the son of a hunter take sides with the Devil, hm? I mean, we all have our dark days, but setting the goddamned Devil himself free on the world…" He knelt down in front of Sam again, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up so Sam was forced to look him in the eye. "You want to watch your own burn, you piece of shit. There don't have a word for somethin' like you."

Sam's mouth twitched but he kept it shut. There wasn't a point in arguing. If he told these guys a story they wanted to hear, whether or not it was true, they'd kill him. If he didn't, they'd torture him, then kill him.

He couldn't even blame them. It's what he'd do. But that wasn't very comforting.

Another cut on his collar bone. Another across his chest. Three more down his arm. The floor beneath him was starting to look like a splatter painting.

Sam couldn't suck in enough oxygen to repel the pain and frustration. Telling the guy to fuck himself helped, but only until the next cut.

They were getting more vicious. Dennis pulled the knife across his skin in jagged lines, digging in deeper each time, pausing only to see what Sam's reaction was. The only satisfaction Sam got was in the grimace of disappointment that told him his tormentor wasn't getting nearly the response he'd been hoping for.

"What's the plan, Sam?" Dennis hummed, digging the tip of the knife into sam's shoulder blade before slicing to the side. Sam sucked air through his teeth. His hands were shaking now. His muscles were getting tired of the tension. Beads of sweat ran down his face."Start talkin' and I'll stop slicin'."

He could see the man's frustration growing. Hell, he could feel the frustration through each new gash in his skin. This wasn't going to end well.

If he had any doubts about that they were thrown out the window once Dennis stopped trying to get him to confess to anything and graduated to simply enjoying using Sam as a canvas, painting an increasingly painful picture.

Sam's vision was starting to swim when the man finally took a decent break. He stepped back and Sam watched him, bleary-eyed but careful, making sure the man saw the defiance in him.

Salt water stung the open cuts and dripped into his eyes, his muscles ached, his wrists had chaffed so badly that they now felt like they were tied with barbed wire. But this guy had officially pissed him off. Despite the fact that Sam was a college kid, a wannabe lawyer, a bookworm, and generally thought of as the quiet one, that wasn't all of him.

The part that made him a great hunter, a scary adversary, and sometimes blurred the line between good and bad, was the part that would keep him alive here.

"Getting tired yet?" He smirked. That was probably his new friend's tipping point.

Dennis stepped forward again, slowly pressing the tip of the blade into Sam's side. Sam grimaced, his breath heaving with the effort to hold back a scream as the knife dug deeper. He glared at Dennis through sweat-soaked strands of hair, latching onto the man's eyes in a defiant staring contest, clenching his teeth so hard it made his jaw ached. His heart was hammering in his chest.

Dennis pressed harder, Sam took a sharp breath. Then, with a bitter smile, Dennis leaned in, still looking Sam straight in the eye.

Sam couldn't help it. His eyes clenched shut, and his whole body tensed like he'd been electrocuted. The strangled scream left his throat without his permission. His mind went white and coherent thought became impossible. He felt the metal scrape against his ribs as Dennis twisted it. Sam's vision went dark for a second and he felt like he might be sick. He clamped his jaw shut and swallowed that reflex. His hands were shaking so hard the noise of the metal cuffs clacking together was echoing around the room.

"Now," Dennis leaned over to Sam's ear, fist still holding tightly to the blade wedged in between Sam's ribs, "you miserable, demon-loving bastard. Where. Is. The. Devil?"

Sam's head lolled forward, coming to rest on his chest. He struggled to bring his gaze back up to meet Dennis' but black spots filled most of his vision. "I. Don't. Know!" he huffed. With a sharp jerk and the last reserves of his strength forced his head up, pulling his shoulders up and back, and spit straight into Dennis' eyes.

"Ahhhhgg!" Dennis yelled, sweeping a hand across his face. He grasped the handle of the blade more tightly, fury in his eyes, and shoved. Sam felt the hilt of the knife digging into his skin, his eyes slammed shut, willing the pain to go away.

A low wheezing escaped his throat with every breath now. He was forcing the air out of his lungs too quickly because expanding his chest caused the knife embedded in his side to grate against his ribs. He was hyperventilating.

"Dennis!" a voice shouted from the other side of the room.

"What!" Dennis snapped.

"Let me have a go at the kid before you kill 'em." The last man, Mack, held up a small vial of liquid, nodding toward Sam. "If this doesn't do it then he won't talk and it'll just kill him anyway."

Dennis glanced back at the kid in front of him for a moment. "Fine," he muttered. "But the knife stays!" he jerked at the handle, eliciting a cry from Sam before turning and walking back to lean on the table.

Sam's eye's fluttered open, aware that there was someone new in front of him.

"Sam…" Mack started, calmly. "I don't particularly like this type of stuff. Too… distasteful, for me."

"Really?" Sam breathed, his voice weak. "Seems like you're fine watchin- " he drew a shaky breath, "watchin' a person be tortured…"

Mack shrugged, "Well, the thing is, Sam… The thing is that you, well you're not really _a_ _person_ , per say, are you?" Sam glowered at him, but his heart sank at the notion which he himself has wrestled with ever since he found out about Azazel's plan. "No… No…" the man shook his head, "You're evil Sam."

Sam could feel his vision fading. "No," his voice was weaker now, his words more like a question than an answer. "I'm not… I'm not." He wasn't a demon. Just his blood. Not him. His head hung down to his chest again, his energy leaving him fast as the wounds in his chest and side continued to bleed.

"You're good, I'll give ya that," Mack said approvingly. "But you don't fool us, Sam. And now, either we're gonna find out what you know, or you're takin' your secrets to Hell." He held up the vial, giving it a small shake so that the pale liquid inside splashed back and fourth. "Do you know what this is Sam?" Sam didn't respond, he didn't look up. Mack landed a sharp smack on Sam's cheek, making him jerk and hiss in pain as the knife still lodged in his side moved.

"Can't have ya fallin' asleep on us Sam," the man smiled. _Smiled._ "Hey, Dennis," Mack called over his shoulder, "you sure he ain't gonna bleed dry before he talks?"

Dennis grunted, "Nah, the cuts aren't that deep, and the other one's plugged up by the knife. We can patch it if you wanna be sure, but he'll be around for a while. May just have to give him a wake up call every now and then," he snorted with laughter.

"Right…" Mack rolled his eyes. "So," he fixed his attention back on Sam, grabbing the kid's chin and lifting up head up. Sam groaned, wishing they'd just leave him the fuck alone for a minute. "Do you know what this is?" Mack waved the vial around in front of Sam's face.

Sam's eyes were glazing over as he looked from the bottle back to Mack. Apparently deciding that Sam's lack of response meant no, he went on. "This," he shook the vial again, "is a type of slow-acting poison."

Sam felt a small twinge of fear knot his stomach. He could survive a hell of a beating, and he had, but he knew there wouldn't be much he could do to fend off poison in his bloodstream. He would die.

After a stupid night and drinking, after hitting Dean… _Dean_. What would happen to Dean? Did he have any idea where Sam had gone? Would he have to live the rest of his life thinking Sam just left him? The thought made his stomach roll, and he wretched.

"Whoa, whoa," Mack said, jumping back to avoid the sudden splatter of vomit. "Rich, throw me a towel!" The black-haired man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a red cloth, covered in grease and dirt smears. He flung it to Mack who caught it easily, then turned back to Sam, wiping it over his mouth.

"There's no need to get so worked up, Sammy. You haven't even let me explain everything about this stuff." He smiled again. Annoyance shot through Sam's mind at the way that moron said his name – Sammy. Only one person in the world could call him that, and hearing that name on this idiot's lips made fires burn behind his eyes. If Mack noticed his reaction, he didn't say so.

"Now here's the thing about this particular poison, Sammy." Sam clenched his fists, his shaking muscles tightening as he heard the name again. "It won't kill you for several hours, and, even better, there's an antidote which I happen to keep on me. Thing is, in order to get some of that antidote, I'm gonna need you to tell me what your plans are with the Devil." His voice was unnaturally calm. In some ways, Sam felt more afraid of this polite, composed person than he had toward the other two who had beaten and stabbed him.

"And Sam," the calm voice continued, "after a few minutes with this stuff in your system…" his voiced trailed off for a moment. "You're gonna wanna tell me everything."

Instinctively, Sam pushed away from the vile, twisting his head to the side. "No, wait-" he slurred.

Rough hands grabbed Sam's chin again, squeezing his mouth open. Sam struggled to close his mouth, but he felt the cool liquid slide onto his tongue. He sputtered and choked, trying to spit it out, but a hand quickly covered his mouth while another pinched his nose. He couldn't breath.

He squirmed and tried to kick out, his legs fighting the restraints. Tears sprung up in his eyes as the blade dug into his flesh and more hot blood ran down his side. Then, unwillingly, his body betrayed him, and he swallowed.

"There," Mack said in a velvety voice, patting the side of Sam's face hard enough that it stung. "Not so bad was it?" Sam glared at him, but his mind was buzzing with panic.

"Boys?" Mack turned toward the other two men, "Why don't we give our friend some time alone, to think, and let his… predicament… sink in?" The other two nodded, grinning.

"You wanna plug up that hole in his side first?" the voice sounded distant.

"Might as well, but be quick."

"Just stitch it. He looks like he's 'bout to pass out anyway."

"Oh he'll be wakin' soon enough."

Sam heard footsteps and a door slam. He was aware of some shuffling and a muffled voice next to him but he couldn't understand what they were saying. His body was as far forward as the chains would allow now. The pain in his wrists had dulled even though the full weight of his body was now pulling on them. That was probably from blood loss or maybe because he was losing touch with consciousness.

He knew someone was pressing on his side, but when he felt the knife being pulled out of his muscle, scraping again against his ribs, his head spun and he finally gave in to the dark.


End file.
